blanket party

The lush abundance of the overgrown yard, with its wild grains, winter grasses, burr clover and seasonal weeds bursting from the earth, is over stocked with busy paper wasps. They sample the flora as they fill out the map, maws full of pulp and purpose, wings lit with afternoon sun and flashed signals. They browse and scintillate, every threat shared a promise, gloss and glitter and the edge of function. They make their dream kingdom known mouth by mouth, the calm geometry of their ancient faith. Another nest of fundamentalists I will learn to weather. The season all release, this blanket of reaching green. 

And so it is coffee by the cup. The day in barking dogs and squirrel circuits, an old man dragging bags of cans, the crows all call their shots. Old songs and sullen children, strangers made of mumble and bristle and kill you later eyes, the wind dancing soft and slow. I am a keeper of ancient distances, a holder of unyielding grudges, the narrator waiting for the next reel. A shuffle of feet, a scuffle of dust, each sacred circle a sharing of steps, a holding of hands. Writing on the inside of the light. Inking in the empty patches in the sky. 

It comes in waves and lasers. It comes in sharps and skins. The earnings of the hour, these bright slices of burned down sentience, the particular party this blanket seems to imply. The distance is always open, tomorrows always waving goodbye before you get there, all the lasts gathered together somewhere in the leavings of my skin. The great failings and old enemies that always seem to show. The ache for yet another world that wasn’t. A woman opening a door with the window on her mind.